Chapter 2 Daniil #2
“What do you do, Daniil?” she asks, sipping her wine and eyeing me carefully over the rim of the glass.
My cover story has been perfected for years, polished until it gleams like a fine piece of art.
“I own a security firm. Obsidian Vault International.”
Recognition sparks instantly in her eyes, and I watch her entire posture change. She leans forward, suddenly animated in a way that tells me I've just become infinitely more interesting.
“Wait. The Obsidian Vault? The cultural transport and museum security firm?”
I nod, enjoying her reaction.
“You handled the Kensington Manuscript last year. I read everything about that operation. Decoys, encrypted transport routes, climate-controlled vehicles, round-the-clock security.” She's practically bouncing in her seat now. “It was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”
There's genuine admiration in her voice. No agenda or hidden motive. Just pure, unadulterated wonder at what she believes is my life's work. The irony isn't lost on me. She's praising me for protecting culture while I use that same operation to smuggle weapons and launder money.
“You admire the work?”
“It's more than work. It's preservation. You protect history. You make sure that future generations can learn from the past and see the beauty that came before them.” Her cheeks flush with enthusiasm.
“I've dreamed of working with a company like yours. The resources, the expertise, the commitment to cultural preservation.”
She's glowing now, and I find myself genuinely curious about what it would be like to see the world through her eyes. To believe that protecting art and history is a noble calling rather than a convenient cover for my criminal enterprise.
“You seem to know quite a bit about our operations,” I note.
“I make it my business to know. I've followed your work for years. The Byzantine mosaics you transported from Syria, the Native American artifacts you helped repatriate, the Renaissance paintings you secured during that museum fire in Florence.” She pauses, taking a breath. “You do incredible work.”
If only she knew the truth. The Syrian mosaics were a cover for moving arms dealers.
The Native American artifacts were stolen from a private collector who refused to pay his gambling debts.
The Renaissance paintings were forgeries while the originals were sold to private collectors who care nothing about history.
But watching her face light up as she talks about my supposed dedication to cultural preservation, I find myself almost wishing her version of my life were real.
“I have a proposition,” I announce, deciding to test the waters.
She blinks, clearly caught off guard by the sudden shift. “That escalated quickly.”
“One weekend. I need a wife.”
Her wine nearly spills. She sets the glass down carefully, as if it might shatter from the shock of my words.
“Ex-excuse me?” she stutters.
“Pose as my wife for a weekend. Attend an event with me. In return, I’ll fund your exhibit. Fully.”
She stares like I've grown a third eye. I can see her mind racing, trying to process what I've just offered. It's a calculated risk, but one I'm willing to take. I need a wife to satisfy my mother's will, and she needs funding for her dreams. It's a transaction, pure and simple.
“Why me?”
“Because you're passionate. Smart. And untethered.”
She leans back, skeptical now. “So, I'm easy to use.”
“So, you can walk away clean.”
The distinction matters more than she realizes.
Most people who get involved with the Bratva find themselves trapped, compromised, or dead.
But Naomi represents something different.
She's an outsider, untouched by the criminal world I inhabit.
She can play her part and walk away without consequences.
I reach into my coat and slide a card across the bar. Obsidian Vault International. Daniil Zorin. My name is embossed in silver lettering. She picks it up like it might burn her fingers.
“You don't have to decide tonight. But think about it. You want your exhibit. I want a solution.”
“What exactly happens at this event?” she asks, her eyes narrowing.
“Appearances. Dinner. Social obligations. Nothing more.”
She brushes her thumb over my name on the card, and I can already tell she'll accept.
Not tonight. She's too smart to make such a significant decision impulsively.
But soon. The need in her eyes when she talks about her exhibit, and the desperation barely hidden beneath her professional composure, tells me everything I need to know.
“This is insane,” she murmurs, but she doesn't put the card down.
“Sanity is overrated,” I reply smoothly.
“How do I know you're not some kind of criminal?”
The question hits closer to home than she could possibly know. I keep my expression neutral, giving nothing away.
“You don't. But you can research me. Research my company. Make your own decisions.”
She nods slowly, still turning the card over in her fingers. “And if I say yes?”
“Then we both get what we want.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then you continue struggling for funding while I find another solution.”
It's not a threat, just a statement of fact. But I can see her debating the options, measuring the risks against the potential rewards. She's smart, and her intelligence will serve her well if she decides to accept my offer.
“I need to think about it,” she says softly, chewing on her bottom lip.
“Of course.”
I raise my glass, noting that she hasn't touched her wine since I made my proposition. “To idealists willing to take risks.”
She hesitates for a moment, then clinks her glass against mine. The sound is delicate and musical, like wind chimes in a gentle breeze.
“To risks that might actually pay off,” she whispers.
And I know, without question, that I've just opened the first page of a story I won't be able to close. Whatever happens next, Naomi Carter has already begun to change the trajectory of my carefully ordered life. The question is whether that change will be her salvation or her destruction.